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BonnieBo/wild one
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Date Posted: 09:10:23 12/05/01 Wed
In reply to:
wild wahine
's message, "Cardioversion" on 09:06:54 12/05/01 Wed
excerpt from Cardioversion,
sequel to Flatline
by Wild Wahine/BonnieBo
The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but this road was seamed with jagged scars of black tar. Nikita’s teeth clacked together as the van ran over another pothole. It must have been the size of a moon crater, because the van landed heavily on its right wheels, flipped back and landed four-square. She jostled against her silent neighbors before she could help it. She braced her feet against the floor, the tips of her spiked high heels digging into the thin rubber mat. She didn’t know anyone on this team. They were all McAffee’s people, but even their own familiarity with each other didn’t lean towards friendliness.
Conversation was non-existent. The silence felt taut like when a pack of wild dogs judge each other, just the moment before hackles are raised, fangs bared. Fear and mistrust smelled metallic, mixing with the recirculated air and motor oil. She glanced at the sullen faces, the empty eyes surrounding her. How long before they turned on each other? The skin of her throat prickled as though she could already feel McAffee’s teeth closing in and ripping out her jugular.
She rubbed the side of her neck. Foolish wasting her adrenalin on these fanciful thoughts. *Not productive.* She closed her eyes, and inhaled slowly. *Stay focused.* She opened her eyes again, making sure they revealed nothing, looked as vacant as everyone else on the team. Even the techno-geek at the control computer looked blank. Under the wild profusion of eggplant-colored hair, the girl’s gaze seemed to be missing the punk rage that usually went along with that hair color, or the multiple body piercings along her ear and eyebrow.
The baby-faced operative sitting next to Nikita adjusted his rifle. His puffy cheeks pinkened with frustration as he fiddled with a switch. His laser sighter wavered on and off, a faint circle flickering on the floor, across the legs of their team mates. Nikita reached over, and pushed a button on the handle.
"There you go." She nodded as the laser brightened to a steady beam. Everyone else on the team had a laser sighter on their arms. Everyone except her. Differences made her uneasy. McAffee had ordered the munitions: his team, his protocol. She rubbed her neck again.
"We’re at egress," said the girl, her voice flat.
"This is it," growled McAffee.
The van pulled to a stop, the rumbling motor still engaged. The floor vibrated beneath Nikita’s
feet. The door clicked, then swooshed open along its slick tracks. She stood, slightly bent over so her head wouldn’t hit the van’s roof, and started to follow the team out the door.
"Nikita, here." The punk girl at the controls handed her another pair of glasses. "Your com unit’s fritzed."
Nikita exchanged her glasses, careful to slide the hooks of the new pair behind her ears without disturbing the tight curls that framed her face. She pressed the small jewel at the hinge. "How’s that?"
"Clear signal."
"Thanks, uh ..."
"Li-Huan." A surprised smile flashed across the girl’s moon-shaped face. "This pair goes better with your dress, anyway."
"Well, we must look our best." Nikita stepped towards the door, one hand on the threshold. She could almost feel McAffee breathing down her neck.
His fingers clamped on her arm, five doughy points of pressure, enough to hurt but not to bruise. "Do it exactly as profiled. I’ll be watching you. One false move, and you’re dead meat."
"I understand." Nikita smiled coolly. She tripped, twisting at the waist, and fell sideways. Her knee collided with the nerve point just below McAffee’s hip. He gasped and let go. Nikita fell forward, stumbling down to the street. She landed, teetering on the balls of her feet, her arms held a little wider to catch her balance. "I’m sorry. I’m not used to these high heels." She smoothed her dress, and walked across the sidewalk. On her left, an ambulance cut its siren mid-whoop as it pulled into the emergency room driveway. She spared a glance for the old brick hospital, and then turned to the tall white buildings of the medical institute. In those ivory towers of medicine, she had an appointment with Dotorre Vincenzo Bartolli. Only he didn’t know it. Not yet.
***
Doctors always made her jumpy. Who cared if this place was the most prestigious medical school on the West Coast? It was infested with doctors. She walked by a pair of health professionals in their long white coats, their stethoscopes draped around their necks like feather boas.
"Entirely hypothetical, a coincidence. Jesus, show me a good double blind randomized control study, and maybe I’ll consider it," asserted the shorter physician, who reminded Nikita of Doctor Genova, all cool efficiency. They were all the same: the quiet slightly sympathetic smile, the persistent prodding and poking. Sadists, every one of them. She’d rather face a garden variety terrorist any day. At least she knew where she stood with them.
Nikita adjusted her conference badge as she walked down the hallway to the main auditorium. Oil paintings of the school deans, somber in their ceremonial robes, hung on the walls. Under their glossy watchful gaze, walked the shadow-eyed residents in rumpled scrubs. Eager medical students smelled faintly of formaldehyde and anatomy lab. When beepers chirped, people reached for their side pockets like a gunslinger’s reflex. After the nervous laughter and the relieved shrugs, they resumed earnest discussions about grants, statistical significance, and retroviruses. Just ahead, sleek-suited conference attendants filed into the auditorium at the end of the hall. Above the double doors, words were carved into granite, and gilded: "Do No Harm."
*Do no harm?* Nikita shook her head. She slipped behind the other conferees. Her simple dress looked unremarkable. The navy wool outfit provided excellent camouflage among the suits surrounding her. She looked like everyone else - a well-dressed nerd, feeling awkward in her professional attire, cowed by fashion, avoiding flare, sticking with the same conservative style year and year. She blended in with the other conference attendants. Because somewhere, among this group of healers and quacks, was Vincenzo Bartolli, M.D.
"Teams, report." McAffee’s voice buzzed unpleasantly in her ear.
"Team One in position."
"Team Two in position."
"Point mobile." Nikita wanted to tear off her com unit so she wouldn’t have to listen to McAffee’s rant. His voice filled her ear, invaded her. It was too intimate, McAffee vibrating through her head. Nikita bit her lower lip as if damming up her hot response. *Do the job.* She didn’t have to marry McAffee. She just had to follow his orders, even if they were wrong.
Inside the auditorium, Nikita walked behind the last row of seats. The banner over the stage proclaimed "2000: Year of the Healthy Child." The master of ceremonies continued his introductory remarks. The light reflected off his bald spot, a little shiny with sweat. On the stage, two other speakers sat behind a table next to an empty chair. Nikita continued walking to the stairway. "Target’s not there. Do we have confirmation?"
"Get in position," barked McAffee.
"Excuse me." She squeezed past a conferee, whose cloth briefcase bulged with overflowing papers and freebies. Then she saw someone who didn't belong there. An anomaly. At the vantage point by the back entrance, stood a man with an ear-piece, its comically conspicuous wire disappearing under his collar. The white conference badge was missing from his ill-fitting blue serge jacket. He scanned the auditorium with professional detachment as he pressed the ear-piece, his lips moving. Nikita doubted he was praying. She looked down, and walked past him. Training kept her feet moving steadily, fast but not too fast. When he couldn't see her any more, she took the stairs quickly, two at a time. She flipped open her purse, and slipped her hand inside. She kept her hand loosely on her gun as she listened for the soft shuffle of following footsteps. But she heard only the staccato of her own heels, the speaker’s adenoidal voice.
They hadn’t picked her out yet. No one tailed her. A small stream of relief trickled through her. She slowed down right before she reached the landing, and walked through doorway. She found her spot, just off to the side and with a good view of the stage. The balcony was empty. It smelled of dust and disuse. She stepped over crumpled candy wrappers and a Styrofoam cup, its bottom gummy with old coffee residue. As she sat down in the wood-backed chair, the hinged metal seat squeaked despite her best efforts to be quiet. Its rough edge snagged her pantyhose. She felt the tear run down her leg. If that was all she had to worry about, it would be a good day.
"In position. Still no target." Nikita surveyed the auditorium, her eyes constantly moving just as she had been trained. A statesman with graying chestnut hair sat near the front, his military posture belonging to a much younger man. He reminded her of an older version of Michael. The reminder - part nostalgia, part fantasy - saddened her. Section operatives didn’t make old bones. She doubted either of them would reach that age.
She pushed aside the thought, and continued looking. The dignitaries sat in the front row. She marked the balding pates, the white hair, the African cloth turbans, and ... No. The head with black curls belonged to a tall lanky person, talking to a neighbor who appeared as if she shook with laughter. What was Lucas doing here? He was like one of those grinning Jack-in-the-boxes, popping up when she least expected it. Confusion flooded her as she forced herself to continue scanning. She wanted to stare, but didn’t want the extra seconds of recorded tape to point him out. It couldn’t be him. She had seen a black-haired man, and her treacherous mind had conjured Lucas up. First Michael, now Lucas. *Get a grip.*
Nikita pressed the eyeglass hinge to activate her left lens telescopic view. She peered into the wings, then swore silently. "No target, but there is security. Shiny coats, cheap com units. Looks like Secret Service. Three on the back stage, one near my egress point."
*All wrong. What the hell was going on?* Why was Secret Service here? Section was supposed to be the only heat around. She wished again that there was someone on this mission she could trust. It wasn't the first time she had wished that. She knew it wouldn't be the last. She opened her handbag, pulled out her gun, and screwed on the silencer. Now it began.
The Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat. The glottal sound amplified over and over in the auditorium. He tugged at his collar. "I’m pleased to announce a surprise speaker. From the very beginning, she has fought for health care in this country. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming the First Lady of the United States."
From the backstage, walked two people, flanked by men in shiny coats. The phalanx of Secret Service agents parted only momentarily, and a silver-haired man joined the other speakers at the table while the First Lady strode to the podium. Applause thundered throughout the auditorium. She acknowledged the cheers with her trademark grin and a raised hand.
Without breaking stride, the First Lady adjusted the microphone for her petite height. "I heard that the World Health Organization was throwing a little conference." She looked confidingly at the audience, who chuckled at her understatement. With impeccable timing, she played them well, her voice mellow like an alto saxophone. More than one person thought that she, not her husband, should sit behind the desk in the Oval Office. "A W.H.O. conference? Who would miss that? So I crashed the party. I want to thank Doctor Vincenzo Bartolli for graciously giving me his speaker time."
Bartolli picked up the water pitcher. Determination creased his face as he shakily poured a glass. Then he raised his trembling drink as if he toasted the First Lady. Nikita grimly eyed the stage. Now that Bartolli was sitting, her target was reduced by half. A rifle would have been a better long distance weapon than her gun. As it was, her gun didn’t have a laser sights to pinpoint her accuracy. But complaining was not an option. Instead, she said, "Six security on stage."
"Four more on the floor," reported another team.
"What about the anomalies? Should we abort?" Nikita tried not to sound hopeful.
"This isn't a committee. Stay at position," McAffee said. "Wait for my mark."
The clear alto voice continued. "Just as we wiped out smallpox, we will eradicate other diseases. We may have the technology to treat disease, but then we will always be a step behind. Prevention is the key ..."
Throughout the speech, Bartolli continued sipping his glass of water. Nikita’s throat itched. If only they had known he was a dipsomaniac, they could have poisoned the water jug and be done with it. Instead, she waited at a health conference for the right deadly moment. He drank steadily, and she suddenly remembered the Marx Brothers movie she had watched with Lucas. Groucho had said, "If he keeps drinking like that, they’ll have to build a dam behind him." Maybe two dams and a reservoir. It almost made her smile.
The First Lady stabbed the air with her finger. "What is the best preventive medicine? We must eliminate hunger, illiteracy, poverty. We join you in your commitment to make this world a better place for children, all children ..."
The words blended together into a dull constant humming in the back of Nikita's head. The high ceiling trapped the heated air, and made the balcony humid and stuffy. A bead of sweat formed, then ran down her spine. Her temples throbbed. Nikita’s attention drifted. She floated on a steady stream of words and more words. It was almost hypnotic. She felt drowsy. She fought to keep her eyes open. Her lids seemed heavy ...
Then the room was suddenly silent. Was something wrong? She jerked involuntarily in her seat, and the hinged bottom of her seat creaked. For an awful moment, she was certain that everyone had heard her. But there were no outcries, no pointed fingers. The silence continued, and then she realized that the speech had just ended. The audience stood, and applauded the First Lady. The raucous noise shook the rafters, made it difficult to hear McAffee’s instructions. The First Lady smiled and waved, as she walked to the table and sat next to Vincenzo Bartolli. He poured her a glass of water, and they seemed to laugh about something. The Master of Ceremonies glanced at his watch, and bent over the two. Then he walked to the podium.
"Since we’re running out of time, we’ll move straight to the questions-and-answer period. Both Doctor Bartolli and the First Lady will remain with the rest of our distinguished panelists."
"Did you hear that?" asked Nikita. With growing dismay, she watched the Secret Service men move closer to the table. Their mouths were set in the same grim line, as uniform as their serge jackets. So this impromptu visit had been a surprise for them too, and they weren’t happy about it. Welcome to the club.
The Secret Service stood behind the First Lady. They looked around the room, a many-headed surveillance team working in unison. They scanned the audience, the balcony. Damn them. She was as good as exposed. Now there would be no chance to get Bartolli as he walked to the podium. No chance for a clear mark as he stood before the audience, an easy target.
She anxiously pushed forward in her seat, which snagged her nylons again. Another hole, another run. Her stockings were being ripped apart like their mission. Too many unexpected factors were tearing holes into their plan. How many more anomalies could they try to accommodate before the entire fabric of their scheme would fall apart? The profile was rapidly unraveling. Soon nothing would be left except a few threads, a wisp here and there. A single thread couldn't make a secure lifeline. But this was all she had. They were committed.
Her heart thudded against her ribs. She cleared her throat. "I could get the target when he leaves the stage. There’s a back entrance."
McAffee growled. "Stick with the profile. Do it."
Nikita licked her suddenly dry lips. Bartolli cocked his head, his body leaned towards the First Lady as he courteously listened to her. Why did they have to be so damn cozy? Couldn’t they act like complete strangers?
Fragments of the First Lady’s speech replayed in her mind. "What was the best preventive medicine?" Supposedly Bartolli’s death would prevent thousands of deaths. Bioterrorism would be stopped. Whole populations would be saved from designer germs, stolen smallpox. But the rationalization didn’t offer any comfort. It never had. She couldn’t do this cold-blooded execution. Her grip relaxed on the handle of her gun. She started to lower her sights. She glanced away, her guts twisting.
"Now," ordered McAffee.
Nikita looked up again. The fine hairs on the back of her neck bristled as she stared straight into the eyes of a Secret Service man on the stage. For a moment, recognition, then realization made him freeze. He reached inside his jacket. Nikita automatically jerked up the gun again. She held her breath to steady her hand. Just as she squeezed the trigger, Bartolli moved, reaching for the water pitcher. Nikita fired again, but it was too late to get off an accurate shot.
*Shh-plop. Plop.* Bartolli’s eyes widened. His mouth formed a perfect "O" of surprise as he fell back. A red geyser burst, spraying everywhere, splattering the First Lady even as the Secret Service agents pushed her down to the floor and covered her.
Nikita sprang from her seat before she heard the first screams, the shouts of confusion. She was already moving by the time that the Secret Service bullet smashed the wall where her head had been. Plaster and wood splintered, instead of her skull and gray matter. By the time the Secret Service thundered into the balcony, she was gone.
***
Chaos was her friend. If Nikita could slip into the stampede of people rushing out of the auditorium, she could lose herself in the crowd. She avoided the first group of agents as she clattered down the back stairs, more interested in haste than silence. From a distance, the yelling sounded like the roar of a stormy sea: pitching and tossing, all terror and confusion, direction uncertain. Then, over the rumbling shouts, she heard something distinctly different - the relentless percussion of pursuit. The deep pounding grew higher and louder as a second wave of Secret Service clambered up the stairs.
Nikita ran faster, put one hand on the bannister, and jumped. She swivelled, thrusting forward with all her momentum as she vaulted. Her legs shot out like a missile, and exploded into a vicious kick. Her feet connected with the first Secret Service man. His head snapped back with an ominous crack, his sunglasses flying off and hitting the wall. His suddenly limp body fell back, and trapped his team-mate’s gun arm.
Nikita swung her elbow and hit the team-mate right behind his ear as she jumped over the two men. She landed, cat-like, on the balls of her feet. This time there was no sign of her previous clumsiness when she had "accidently" fallen into McAffee. She could rumba or rumble in these high heels. She had lied to McAffee. Big deal. Apparently he had lied to her. She was on her own now.
She glanced quickly behind her. The agents still lay on the floor. Team One was supposed to have secured those men near her exit point. No time to think about that now.
McAffee said, "You’re clear. Go. All teams exit."
Nikita peered over the threshold to double check, and then stepped on to the main floor, where conferees were running to the doors. Immediately she was caught in a current of people. She was swept away. She didn’t like feeling out of control, but the traffic flow carried her in the right direction. Someone pushed her from behind. She kept her balance as she half-jogged with the rest of the audience. She kept one hand inside her purse in case she needed her gun.
The exodus slowed down when they reached the bottleneck near the exit doors. She was pressed on all sides. An elbow jabbed her kidneys. Someone’s beaded purse pushed into her arm so that each rounded shape was probably permanently imprinted on her skin. The air stank of perfume, sweat, and panic. Hundreds of people tried to squeeze through a space six-foot wide. For a moment, she was trapped, completely immobile. She could almost feel a target painted on the back of her head. Now was their chance. They could get her now while her camouflage of surrounding people caged her in. Her breath fluttered inside, struggling inside the vise of her chest. Claustrophobia choked her. Then something finally seemed to give. The crowd suddenly flowed and spilled into the lobby of the medical school. She was propelled forward with the rest.
She turned to her left. She walked with deliberate measured steps down the hallway as if she had all the time in the world, as if she hadn’t just executed a man. A draft brushed against her arms whenever someone ran past her. People opened doors, and stuck their heads out of their offices into the corridor.
"What the hell’s going on?" asked a man in a laboratory coat.
Nikita shrugged, and continued walking. One step at a time. She barely leashed her impulse to run away, to put distance between herself and whatever remained of Bartolli. She reached the end of the hall. Through the glass door, she could see the van pull up into the passenger loading zone at the side of the curb. Her ride home. Her shoulders eased as she grabbed the handle of the exit door. She turned the knob. Almost there. She was almost done.
Far away sirens wailed like a pack of roving banshees, their shrieks shattering the peace of the night. The ululating grew louder and lower. More ambulances, she thought, arriving at the hospital. She stared down the dark street, which was empty now except for a few cars and stragglers, late for home. Then blue and white lights suddenly splashed across the road, the sidewalks, the buildings; dispelling the darkness as squad cars filled the street. They squealed to a stop. Car doors opened and slammed. Uniformed cops jumped out on to the sidewalk. They ran towards the front entrance, away from her. Even from where she stood inside the building, she could hear them through the glass windows and doors.
"10-32 in progress," buzzed the car radios. "Suspect armed and dangerous."
Still, they wouldn’t have had a chance to identify her. She had been an anonymous assassin in the balcony. She opened the door, prepared to step out. They wouldn’t notice her. She was just some blonde in a navy dress: a doctor, perhaps a secretary. She could be anybody on campus. All she needed to do was step outside. Step outside and walk past a squadron of armed cops as if they weren’t there. As if she were innocent.
She pushed the door wider. In front of her, a cop talked to a Secret Service agent, who abruptly held up his palm. "That’s a 10-1. Repeat. You’re breaking up." He tapped his ear piece, and muttered, "Damn lead-lined buildings. No x-rays. No signals either. Can’t hear a damn thing." Then the agent stiffened, and turned around suddenly. "That’s her."
Nikita pulled back. She spun on her heel. Agents ran from the other end of the hall, their weapons already drawn. Now she was boxed in on both sides of the corridor.
A deep baritone yelled, "Freeze."
"You didn’t say ‘Simon Says’," thought Nikita. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a red-lettered sign. "Fire Exit. For Emergency Use Only." She dove and pushed the handle. The magnetic locks resisted at first. Then the door hinges protested, creaking with disuse. As she ran into the stairwell, she heard the whine and pop of a bullet. Window glass shattered behind her. Shards rained down on her back, cut into her arms.
The heavy door slammed shut, echoing like a death knell. She was plunged into sudden darkness. She blinked and squinted as her eyes tried to adjust. She ran, half-blind, her fingers skimming along the banister to guide her. All around her, an alarm blared in harsh insistent pulses. She was losing points for style, but she didn’t care. Style wasn’t worth a damn when she was trying to save her skin. She’d be lucky if she got out alive.
She flew down the steps. When the hand-rail turned, she pivoted and jumped to the next flight of stairs. "Where next?"
"Next floor, turn east," said McAffee.
The big metal door was painted with bold block-lettered "B." Nikita tried the door, but the catch only rattled against the guard, refusing to give. It was locked. She could hear them overhead: the distant thunder rumbling louder with each moment. They were gaining on her. She stepped back, and shot open the lock. Metal sparked. Shrapnel scraped her hand. She pushed through, past the smoking threshold.
***
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